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  7d Bardo
Crow
do not hurry

let your shoes rest
one upside down
the other upright

beside the chair
where your toes
pushed them from your feet

your skirt and blouse
draped across the couch
as you dropped them
inattentively

leave them there
a little longer
reaching
one for the other
not quite touching

let your purse lay
undisturbed

fallen on its side
spilling your lipstick
and sunglasses
across the floor

stay

do not take the colors away
from the world
by your absence

not quite yet

please

give me a moment
to inhale you
one more time

close your eyes

and linger
Moratory - Of or pertaining to delay.
Three poets
rot down a river bed
their body decomposing
except their head
still composing poetry
and recite being dead
where poems still flow
I’ve heard them read

one was caught
by the sun beam
flickering ripples of light


another fought
by a splashing bream
kicking up a fight


the third flowed down
the rapid stream
where water foams white


I, one day went fishing
and caught myself a fish
down the river swimming
quoting Tennyson
Dickinson and Finch
I set it free
because poetry is freeing
Not every line in the end
is a hook
three dead poets can testify
down by the brook
Three poets wrote about a river
Sleep,
you deserve some rest
Tomorrow
You’ll be stronger
You’ll stand proud
You’ll even smile
And laughter…it will come

So sleep, be at peace
Have some rest
It’s been a long day
A tough day
But you were brilliant
You were beautiful
you can do this
And you will do this
  Jun 17 Bardo
Yacov Mitchenko
In the midst of thousands
   of poetry submissions
     20 poems may have value,
            maybe 1
      will be a masterpiece.

Forgive the truism
   that the good is rare -

Which makes parenting,
   starting families
     a highly risky,
      a highly courageous
          and wishful proposition.
  
It begins with sleepless nights,
    care and attention every minute,
       then days rife with conflict, arguments,
           days astir with sweat and toil.

There will be thousands of ways
    to miss the mark,
  thousands of ways to try
     while the child is still drawn
          to shadowy, nefarious ways,
             ways that still push
                 the family in the fire,
                    that tax parents to the uttermost
                           and all, by the end of 20 years,
                                 with the lacklustre or little
                                         to show for all that toil.

If poetry submissions say
   anything it would be that families follow
       a similar way -

but the cost is
    far heavier.

For 20 years or more
   will not likely yield
       starry or beautiful citizens,
            fine artists, seers or sages,
                 people who will beautify
                     and be a credit to Mother Earth.

20 years of sweat and toil,
   20 years of dragging up a hill
              a sedated hippopotamus,
         20 years of support and provision
               will likely spawn
                  creatures that spread
                       more bad than good,
                         more suffering, more misery
                            than joy or clarity.

Yet hope perches in the soul eternal -
    all parents hope, we all do,
        that our children will turn out
             to be as the chosen few.
Bardo Jun 16
At a funeral recently I met a lot of people I hadn't seen in ages
Like from a hundred years ago (so it seemed)
What got me was, some of them it looked like they'd hardly aged at all
They looked....they looked nearly exactly the same
Now Me! I'd changed... I'd aged a lot
The trials and tribulations of this life had taken their toll
I said to one of them "Y'know you're still as young looking as I remember you
Is there some kind of Dorian Gray thing going on here
You don't have some mysterious portrait hidden away up in the attic"
I went on "Y'know you could do a movie and you could play yourselves
And when you go up to the attic and unveil the picture
Me! I could play the part of The Portrait staring back at you
You'd recoil in horror O! It's my true self, it's... it's so decrepit, so terrible looking (LoL)".

Me! when I look in the mirror all I see is a ghost
The very distant memory of a once beautiful looking kid.
A bit exaggerated this (I'm not that bad looking I think LoL) but this came into my head at the time, on seeing these youthful old mates of mine. The Feckers LoL.
  Jun 16 Bardo
sandra wyllie
you see streaking down
my cheeks. I’m cutting onions
for the stew. And they just stung
my eyes for a few. No, it is not

a teardrop plopping from
my nose. I have allergies. So, I
sneezed and let go. The little drip
on my lip is only some sweat

that slipped and slid on my chin from
running around the block again. No,
my puffy eyes are not from weeping
all night. It’s the dust mites from sweeping

the floor and polishing the furniture
bright. I'm happy. Can't you tell? It's raindrops
that fell on my face, oh so well.
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